


simple, easy faith

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Series: i won't go quietly into the night [9]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6917482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A training session with Nyssa goes a bit poorly, but it also goes a bit well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	simple, easy faith

**Author's Note:**

> ahahahahahaha I'm so sorry
> 
> I got the prompt for this a month ago

“Again.”

Nyssa’s voice is the sharp crack of a whip, so physical and visceral that Laurel- flat on the mats, soaked in sweat and tired bone deep- winces. Flinches, hands clenching–

At least fight is her first instinct.

Nothing keeps the Black Canary–no. Nothing keeps a _Lance sister_ down for long.

She presses up to all fours, the blood pounding in her ears. Nyssa sneers something, something about legacy (because Nyssa can’t bring herself to say _her_ name any more than Laurel can), something designed to crawl under Laurel’s skin and ignite a fire in her chest. (She wants to claim that being aware of what Nyssa’s trying to do makes her immune, but it doesn’t.) Her hands slip even on the rough padding, too slick with sweat to have any traction, and she sucks in a breath–deep, deep, her ribs protesting vaguely because her entire person is a sore and bruised.

She gathers her feet under her. Waits an extra beat, muscles coiled to spring into action if Nyssa decides she’s taking too long and makes a move when she’s in a poorly defensible posture, and then she’s standing.

Nyssa’s lips quirk, a tiny smile, a crinkle of the eyes that’s almost a sign of approval, and then her face is bored, taunting, once again.

Laurel settles into her stance, and she _hates_ how Nyssa‘s barely broken a sweat while she has to carefully maneuver herself away from the spot on the floor where she’d been lying moments before, lest she slip and sprain an ankle.

She also hates Nyssa’s stupid face. And the stupid ease with which she defeats Laurel’s attack, the nasty not-good-enough-never-good-enough undertone to each of her snide comments, the obnoxious grace with which she flicks her hair over her shoulder and snarls _“Again”_ when Laurel slams against the floor, elbow first.

Laurel stands.

She grits her teeth against the burn when she bends that arm and settles into her stance once more, her hands shaking with the effort to keep her arm still and–”We’re done,” Nyssa says, softly, reaching out with hands that have thrown her to the floor a dozen times and now run gently over the bruise already blooming on her arm.

“I can keep going,” Laurel grits out, even as it takes everything she has not to cry out when Nyssa straightens her arm to inspect it.

“I’m sure you can,” Nyssa agrees, all the nastiness fled from her tone–it truly was just an act to rile Laurel up, and she hadn’t even noticed when she’d started believing it wasn’t. (The relief is sharp enough to make her sway.) “But there is a difference,” Nyssa’s eyes flick up to Laurel’s and then back down, “between pushing yourself, and injuring yourself.”

Laurel licks her lips, and all at once the tension slides out of her. “Okay,” she says, eyes closed, and Nyssa guides her off of the mats. Her grip is soft, her motions clinical, and Laurel plays their training session over and over in her mind, picking it apart and trying to figure out where and how she’d gone wrong each time.

She comments aloud, and Nyssa responds delicately, confidently.

“I draw back a bit before I punch.”

“Yes. Everyone does, at first, and your prior instructors didn’t break you of the habit. I will.”

“I shouldn’t have gone for that roundhouse kick.”

“No; you were off-balance. Now that you know what that feels like, you can correct your stance instead of giving your opponent an opening. And eventually we’ll make sure it stops happening at all.”

She’s so matter of fact. There’s no doubt in her tone–and there’s no judgement, either. Pride in her teaching skills, but also in Laurel’s ability to learn.

The simple, easy faith makes Laurel want to cry.

Instead, she lets her forehead thunk forward against Nyssa’s bare, bony shoulder, squeezes her eyes tight. Nyssa pats the bandaging on her arm- to compress the swelling, to hold an icepack in place- a sign that she’s done, and then settles her hand on the back of Laurel’s head, feather light, for just a moment.

“Tomorrow, we’ll practice what to do when you’ve been compromised and one of your limbs is no longer at your command.” Nyssa pauses, adds (somewhat awkwardly, stiltedly, but adds it nonetheless), “My young padawan.”

Laurel chokes on her own spit, and Nyssa throws her head back as she laughs her ass off.

It’s a nice moment.


End file.
